


Oh, Monstrocity (Down and Dirty)

by Ceris_Malfoy



Series: Season Three Alternates [3]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Always a Different Sex, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Always-a-girl!Stiles, Bad Touch, Emotional Manipulation, F/M, Stiles is a confused ducky, allusions to teenage pregnancy, and is not going to be very happy when she wakes up, bonding without consent, creepy Peter, extreme dubious consent, forced mating, peter doesn't take no for an answer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-11
Updated: 2013-10-11
Packaged: 2017-12-29 01:50:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/999449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ceris_Malfoy/pseuds/Ceris_Malfoy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter leans forward, lips trailing against the skin of her cheek, fingers gently brushing her riotous curls off her face. “You’re trembling, Stiles,” he says. “There’s no need to be afraid.”</p><p>(He has her and she is his. His mate. Not Derek’s. His to touch. His to fuck. His to breed. All <i>his.</i> )</p>
            </blockquote>





	Oh, Monstrocity (Down and Dirty)

**Author's Note:**

> So I got distracted from several other projects with this. It started out as a no-nonsense pwp, and turned into something entirely different. This is set during "Unleashed," with liberties taken. XD

“You know,” Peter says casually from where he is lounging on her bed, “I don’t typically enjoy being used as a guard-dog.”

“OH SWEET JESUS _FUCK_!” Stiles shouts, jumping backwards, dropping the towel she had been using to dry her hair. She takes a small moment to be grateful she has started changing in the bathroom, because she could just imagine how awkward things would be right now if she had walked in wearing nothing but a towel. (She did that once. Derek _still_ will not look her in the eyes most days. Not that she thought Peter would have _any_ shame about catching her naked and off-guard. Dude is a serious creeper most times.) It is times like these where she just wants to move into the guestroom, which has no windows for the many werewolves in her life to climb in through. “What the fuck are you doing here?” she snaps out. “And get off my bed,” she adds absently, already bending down to fetch her towel.

“Oh, nothing much,” he shrugs, grinning impishly, even as he moves to obey (for once). “Following orders, as usual. Scott convinced Derek that you needed to be watched in case of …how did he put it?” Peter taps a finger against his lips, eyes rolled up to her ceiling, a sarcastically thoughtful expression on his face. “Oh, yes. Now I remember!” He waggles his fingers at her, smirking. “‘Eminent virgin sacrifice.’”

She is going to kill Scott. Slowly. With a lot of pain involved. That conversation had been between the two of them (and Danny – but she is _not_ getting her mind involved in _that_ little weird-as-fuck scenario); Scott had no right to bring anyone else into it. Especially not _Derek_ _Hale_ , of all people. “So Derek sent everyone’s favorite creeperific undead werewolf to watch over me?” She snorts, plopping down in her computer chair and toweling vigorously at her hair.

She is not worried about Peter, strangely enough. He is… an _odd_ man, to be sure, and sometimes more than a little creepy, but now that he is not a half-mad alpha on a power-trip he is also a curiously _decent_ man on top of that. He honestly does not give a rats ass about most people, could kill them easily with a gleam in his eye and a song in his heart, but for a select few? Peter would move mountains for those he considers his. She honestly _likes_ him. She _likes_ the snarky banter, the diva-istic ways, the clever wit, and the powerful presence of him. Oddly enough, despite the history between them, he makes her feel safe. Well. Safer then Derek does, at any rate. Still, there is something about the thought of Peter Hale knowing she is a virgin that causes her gut to squirm uncomfortably.

“You can tell Derek not to worry,” she continues, less belligerent, but only by a smidgen. She is a naturally defensive kind of girl, and nowadays it really does not take much to get her back up. “I’m not a virgin any longer.” She honestly forgets, for a moment, that she cannot lie to Peter. She has gotten better at lying to werewolves in general, but Peter …it is like he has some kind of hidden lie-detector installed when it comes to her.

Case in point: at her little fib, he _laughs_ at her. “Oh, and just who did you get to do the deed?” he asks, humoring her, even as he circles slightly around her, moving away from the bed and closer – _too_ close – to her. “It certainly was _not_ my nephew, no matter what connection you may think the two of you share.” His smile is almost derisive.

She looks at him, frozen. He did _not_ just imply…. Abruptly she gets out of her chair, dropping the towel and backing away from Peter to the door. “ _O-_ kay then, I’ve had just about enough of _this_ conversation,” she says. “You can see yourself out – the window is apparently quite functional.”

“Oh come on, Stiles,” Peter says, tone almost amused. “You really didn’t think I wouldn’t _know_ , did you? Even if poor Scott hadn’t been shouting it at the top of his lungs, there’s still your _scent_.” Peter stalks closer, and Stiles cannot help but shrink back. She has not been _truly_ scared of Peter in quite a while, had in fact begun to _enjoy_ the older man’s presence, but there is something about the way he is looking at her right now that makes her want to curl into a safe, dark corner and hope to god he doesnot see her.

“So pure, so clean. Still _unclaimed_ ,” Peter continues, smiling almost gently at her. “I promise you, if it’s of any comfort, that I could take you to bed here and now and within a very short space of time make you forget what the very word ‘virgin’ means, in spite of whatever you may feel for my nephew.” His voice drops into a husky, almost purring tone that is utterly _enthralling_. That voice makes Stiles’ blood pulse hotly through her veins and her heartbeat increase into rapid little thuds that robs her of her breath and makes her tremble slightly. She cannot bring herself to look away from him, staring mesmerized. “Would you like that, Stiles?” he asks her, eyes half-lidded and stare more than a little hungry.

She cannot answer him. Yes, she _would_ like that. She would like that _very_ much. So much so that it terrifies her, especially when that wanting is being applied to this man. She trusts him, insane as that may be, but she will _never_ forget what he has done or what he is capable of. She is also _very_ aware of exactly how there is no one else who looks at her the way Peter is currently looking at her – and because of this there lingers in her mind the possibility that Peter does not even _really_ want her, but that he is using her in some manner for some long-term scheme that will result in death and murder.

And as if he is also capable of reading minds, he adds: “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re afraid of, Stiles.” He looks at her mouth, and to her embarrassment, Stiles finds her lips parting slightly. “I could spend the next ten years telling you that there is nothing to be worried about, that I’m not a monster, and that I have no intention of hurting you.” He cocks his head, and his smile turns a little filthy. “But I really think I should just _show_ you.”

Stiles feels her world lurch and spin wildly out of control as she sees the dark glitter of his eyes: electric blue, predatory, the eyes of a born wolf hunting its prey. He crowds her against her wall, body barely an inch away from being flush against her own. He radiates heat like fire lives within his skin; his form is a burning, solid line of hard muscle which feels both amazingly divine and utterly terrifying against her own slightly chilled flesh.

“You will _enjoy_ this, Stiles,” he tells her, his voice little more than a purr against her ear, but the words reverberate into her heart. “Do I really frighten you so much?” A single finger drags down her throat, tracing the line of her jugular, feeling the rapid pulse he can no doubt hear perfectly well. “I don’t mean to.” His lips caress the soft shell of her ear, sending little shivers of shock racing through her. “I’ll teach you everything you need to know about the male animal.”

It is the lightly mocking tone that enters Peter’s voice that brings her out of her aroused stupor. She attempts to push him away from her (not that he _goes_ anywhere – _damn_ werewolf strength), and says with as much attitude as she can muster, “Uh, _hello_? Seventeen with a really good internet connection and a really well-developed curiosity. _Hardly_ an ignorant child.”

“But not yet truly a woman,” he suggests delicately, and Stiles swallows.

She wants to protest that there is more to being a woman than mere sexual experience, but the words form a choking ball in her throat, as though she herself, in some deep secret place, fears she is somehow less of an mature being because of her sexual inexperience. Not to mention the almost-crippling feelings of inadequacy and self-doubt because, until now, no one has ever even _hinted_ at desiring her in _any_ capacity.

“Perhaps that’s _really_ what’s holding you back,” Peter husks, mouth going back to tracing her earlobe, left hand resting on her shoulder, thumb moving in soothing circles. His other hand has found purchase on her hip, fingers curling in a rather possessive hold. “Not so much nerves as _impatience_.”

Stiles hisses. “So first I’m a terrified child and then I’m sex-starved. Well, Peter, it may interest you to know that when I told Scott that I’m looking for a way to protect myself from virgin-sacrificing dark-druids, sex in general was the very _last_ thing I had in mind – especially with _you_.”

And that is not exactly the _entire_ truth, because she _had_ been spouting nearly-hysterical facts about Heather’s virgin status and the comparative danger of her _own_ currently-virgin status. And she _has_ imagined being sexed up by Peter. She has eyes and a healthy libido; she would have to be _blind_ not to want him. She has noticed him in a very primal way, but it doesn’t mean _anything_ : she has had similar wonderings about Chris and Derek. That she actually _enjoys_ Peter’s company does not mean anything, either. The only part she _is_ telling the truth about is that she has never once considered those ideas side-by-side, never once considered going to Peter and asking him to relieve her of her virginity. Judging by the way he is pulling back to look at her, an amused smirk pulling at his lips, one eyebrow quirked, he _knows_ she is not telling the entire truth.

 _Shit_.

“Besides, if I was that desperate to get laid, it wouldn’t be very hard to do so, now would it?” she adds scornfully, knowing she is asking for trouble, but also starting to get too angry to care. “I’m sure _Derek_ , for instance, would be able to help me out quite nicely…”

She gasps, more than a little stunned, when Peter harshly grabs her arms and shakes her.

“ _Why_ _you_ _little_ … Derek will _never_ be the one who claims you,” he snaps out acidly.

“Why not?” she challenges him. And, yes, this is petty, but she _knows_ Peter; she knows – to an extent – how he thinks and how he acts. And Stiles _knows_ he would have never mentioned Derek in the first place if he was not worried in some capacity about this ‘ _claiming’_ thing happening. She also knows Peter well enough to know he is first and foremost out for Peter and Peter’s happiness, and for him to notice any connection of any kind growing between her and Derek says quite a bit, especially given that he does not appear to be in favor of it. “You’ve said it yourself, there’s a _connection_ there. It wouldn’t be that hard to build on it.”

“I said nothing of the sort,” Peter corrects her, almost idly. “All I mentioned was feelings you _may_ have for him.” His smile is mean now, fingers digging harshly into her skin. She is going to bruise there, she knows. “I can assure you, Stiles, he’ll _never_ look at you that way.”

Stiles grits her teeth. “Whether he does or not isn’t the _point_ , Peter.” She pushes against his chest again. He is too close. She needs him to be across the room, if not out of her house. No such luck, however, as all he does is tighten his grip more. There is a sharp, burning pressure building beneath his hands, and she gasps a little at the pain.  “I’m not doing this, not with you, not _ever_.”

Peter tilts his head, and his smile falls off his face. His eyes are burning, flaring into the impossibly brighter blue of his Beta state. “Oh, I think you _will_ ,” he says softly, and it is only when his grip shifts that she realizes exactly what it is he intends for her.

She cries out as he throws her across her room and onto her bed. She scrambles to get off it, panic racing through her. She does not want Peter, not like _this_. She does not get far before she feels the bed depress behind her and a solid, inescapable grip settles on her hips and twists her around, ignoring how she kicks out at him, until she is on her back, legs splayed around his. She whimpers, trying to squirm out of his grip, but his Beta-blue eyes and serious face hold an unyielding purpose that tells her there is going to be no escape.

“ _No_ ,” she whispers. “ _Please_ , Peter. Please, don’t do this.”

“I’m sorry, Stiles,” he tells her, voice quiet but steady. “But I can’t chance losing you.” He imprisons her easily with one hand, stripping her with the other. She closes her eyes, unable to bear watching his claws shred her clothing. The sound alone is enough to drive tears to her eyes. She refuses to struggle, refuses to give in to the frantic fear in her heart, refuses to allow him to destroy her so thoroughly.  She has been weak and stupid enough to get herself in this situation in the first place. If Peter expects her to plead or cry any more than she already has, if he expects anything from her other than her unmoving acceptance of his superior strength….

When she had imagined her first time, she had imagined it happening after a few dates, or, at the very least after a calm, mature discussion between two consenting individuals. The sex itself she had always imagined would end up a little on the violent side – werewolves in general were stronger than the average human and easily forgot their strength, and all the wolves she knew and wanted to sleep with had _issues_ , seriously – so that is not the problem she is having with this situation. She has never been particular about who played her co-star in her private fantasies; hell, Peter had been in more than a few of them. She can admit it, she is not ashamed of it. But… not like this. _Never_ like this.

She opens her eyes when the sounds of tearing cloth fade and feels humiliation and shame crawl through her as she takes in Peter’s almost clinical look as he leans back slightly to take in her nakedness. She feels none of the slight arousal she had felt when pressed against the wall earlier. There is no pleasure, no excitement, only a stunned resignation laced with abject misery. Of all the men she has met in her short life, she had never thought _Peter_ would do this. Not to her.

She refuses to close her eyes and pretend this is not happening. She stares at him, face as impassive as she can make it, hoping he does not see how much this is destroying her.

His gaze flickers up to meet hers, and there is the slightest hint of remorse flickering across his face. “I’m sorry, Stiles,” he says, voice quiet and gentle. “I’m not doing this to hurt you, but I can’t chance loosing you to the Darach or Derek or anyone else.” Something feral crosses his face, a strange hunger that she instinctively wants to shrink back from. “You’re _mine_.”

He backs off the bed, and she is free now. She could easily get off the bed and attempt to make a run for it, but she sincerely doubts she would get as far as the door, and she is _not_ going to suffer the added humiliation of being dragged back forcefully to the bed, which she is reasonably sure he would do. Peter is a ruthless man, she has always known this. She had feared that part of him, once upon a time, but had come to appreciate the trait when it was being used in protection of her and Derek and Derek’s pack. She has grown to trust him, and _that_ is what makes this so horrifying for her. That she had come to trust him; that she had learned to look past his once-maddened state of mind… only to be proven that she should have never given him the second chance he had asked from Derek and the rest of them.

She should have set him on fire _again_ the very second he looked at her. Instead, she noticed the way all the others treated him like a ticking time-bomb, saw the way the only time he was touched was in anger or rejection, saw the way he looked at the others sometimes, unbearably sad and _hurt_. She noticed the way he watched them all, continuously put himself out there offering advice and help, as if all he wanted was a place to belong, to be needed. And she had instinctively reached out to him, unable to help herself, needing to erase the hurt and pain and ease the loneliness he practically radiated.

And now look at how her compassion has rewarded her: she is naked and terrified and so very, very angry with herself. Stiles tries to ignore the alien sound of a man undressing in her room, turning her gaze to the ceiling.

“So _modest_ , Stiles,” Peter says. “Such a rare thing to see these days.”

And how _dare_ he mock her, on top of everything else? Stiles turns her head sharply, retort fierce on the tip of her tongue, only to choke as her throat locks up when she sees him fully naked. The moonlight coming in through her window is softly caressing the sculpted planes of his body, which is carved with muscles that ripple beneath his skin. He is not as defined as Derek is, but there is a _reason_ she has fantasized about him before this.

Her eyes widen in sudden awareness of just how very _male_ he is as he climbs back onto the bed with her. His body is tanned, or at least most of it is, she acknowledges, eyes drawn to a brief strip of paler flesh. He is already hard, she notes absently. As he positions himself over her, she catches the scent of his skin, and the clean, fresh smell of some masculine soap underlain by a more primitive odor of maleness – something spicy and distinctly unfamiliar – is intimidating.

He runs a hand down her side, touch gentle. He is looking at her, heat in his gaze but also regret, and for the first time she believes him when he repeats softly, “I _am_ sorry, Stiles. I am _not_ doing this to hurt you.”

For the space of a heartbeat, she contemplates asking him to wait, to at least give her time to get used to the idea of Peter-and-Stiles as a unit, but she stops herself before a single syllable escapes. It will not do her any good. She sees Peter’s regret, but she also sees his relentless determination. What must it be like, she wonders absently, to want something, _someone_ so much that no human feelings, however intense, could stand in the way of that wanting?

Werewolves are run by a completely different set of instincts, she knows this. She has done the research and she has run with a wolf pack. She _knows_ that there is a difference of instincts between a human and a werewolf, and an even greater difference between a human and a _born_ werewolf. And once upon a time, her own ancestors must have possessed similar instincts, must have fought and bled for what they considered theirs; she has been told more than once – by Peter himself – that she is _born_ to be a wolf. And to a degree, she can even see it – she instinctively understands and acts upon the concept of _pack_ better than even Derek at times - but none of Peter’s _need_ burns her blood with its icy heat. She has been brought up to value free will and choice above all things, to always look towards a longer game than instant gratification: what are the consequences, what are the reactions? Werewolves are different, she knows this. Peter is a prime example of their dual nature: he is a tactical genius, more than capable of playing the long game, but he also exemplifies the adage of ‘ _to the wolf there is only now_.’

Peter leans forward, lips trailing against the skin of her cheek, fingers gently brushing her riotous curls off her face. “You’re trembling, Stiles,” he says. “There’s no need to be afraid.”

No need for him, maybe.

His hands trace the sharp jut of her collarbone, his mouth teasing its way across the smooth curve of her jaw. “You’ve lost weight,” he murmurs against her mouth, disapproval lingering in his tone.

Stiles is honestly surprised that he noticed – she normally wears so many layers that it is hard on any given day to determine that she even _has_ curves. She has been told more than once that she looks like a particularly effeminate _boy_. She has never been even remotely plump, but the past year of stress and sleeplessness and panic has not been kind to her. She is at the lowest weight she has ever been at since she had been in middle school, and her continued lack of an appetite is not helping matters. She does not say any of this to Peter, though.

Apart from the light caress of his hands and mouth, he is not touching her at all, and when she finally turns her head so that she can look him in the eyes, it seems to Stiles that just for a second there is a genuine tenderness in his eyes. “This honestly not how I wanted this to happen, Stiles,” he tells her. “But, who knows…maybe it’s for the best. At least you’ll be safe from the Darach.” He nuzzles her cheek. “And I promise you will enjoy this.”

She irrationally _hates_ the way he is treating her right now. She would _almost_ rather he be rough with her. “I might be physically inexperienced, Peter,” she says, voice as cold as she can make it. “But I am well aware that sex with an experienced male can be one of life’s richest _pleasures_.”

She chooses her words deliberately, forcing herself to keep looking directly at him and not flinch beneath the heat that flares in his eyes.

There is a wry smile teasing the corners of his lips. “If that’s so,” he murmurs, trailing his fingers down her ribs, “then why haven’t you ever sought it out before?”

She hesitates for only a second before practically spitting out: “Maybe because the only one who’s ever shown interest suddenly decided _rape_ was his best option.”

Peter rears back like she has physically struck him, and there is a look in his eyes, one of deep, undeniable _hurt._

It is not _fair_. He has no right to look at her like that, not when he is the one who forced her onto the bed, not when he is the one who held her down when she tried to get away, not when he is the one who forcefully stripped her of her clothing. It is not _fair_ that she _still_ feels the instinctive need to erase that look from his eyes, to comfort him and tell him she _understands_ , even though she really, really does _not_.

He draws in a shaky breath, and his hands tighten on her skin for a brief instant. “I _am_ sorry,” he repeats, sounding almost _broken_. And then he is kissing her, caressing her mouth into a sensuous recognition of his aptitude as he teases and coaxes from her an unwilling response. She internally struggles to prevent the tide of yearning _want_ he is drawing from her as easily as he could draw her blood, but desire, she is quickly discovering, is not so easily prevented.

Peter’s lips leave hers, and she sees him studying their soft shape before he traces them tantalizingly with his forefinger. Like it has a mind of its own, her mouth purses against his finger, pressing a tiny, hesitant kiss against the calloused pad. She makes a small sound in her deep in her throat, and, as though the sound is a sign he has been waiting for, Peter moves, covering her body with his, saying her name huskily and unevenly as he kisses her again.

This time his touches and kisses are not gentle or careful; his hands slide from her arms to her body, shaping it hungrily beneath him as he sucks fiercely on her tongue, drawing it into his mouth, caressing it, until Stiles cannot tell up from down, lost in her own burning need to reciprocate the caress. She does not even realize what she is doing until she feels the groan he stifles in his throat vibrate against her fingertips.

She freezes abruptly then, shocked by her own lack of self-protection. What has happened to her determination not to give into Peter? This is going to _ruin_ her. This is a nightmare, it _has_ to be. Peter could never want her like this; no one _ever_ wanted her, especially not like _this_. She trembles tensely beneath the heat of his body, waiting for him to make some flippant, taunting comment, waiting for him to hurt her in ways that cannot be fixed.

Instead he moves her so that he can slide his hand along her ribcage and cup her breast, his voice a rough tremor against her ear. “It’s going to be alright, Stiles, I promise.” And he moves again, and this time she can feel how hard he is against her. It is strangely not intimidating or scary at all, she realizes sharply, beyond confused. She feels intensely female and so very powerful that she should have that effect on him.

Beneath his light caress her breasts ache, her nipples taut and hard. When he brushes one softly with his thumb, fierce darts of sensation pulse through her, making her insides ache in unexpected recognition of her sudden and fierce need for this man in her bed.

“Peter,” she says, uncertainty in her tone. She wants him, has _always_ wanted him, even when she was a sixteen-year-old being threatened over the trunk containing a very dead woman. He has always been a strangely magnetic presence in her life, but this…. She would be lying if she said she is comfortable with the way this is turning out. He is, for all intents and purposes, _raping_ her. She should not want him, should not want this. She had not expected she would be so sensitive to his touch; had not realized that just this brief physical contact with him would make her ache for him with an intensity that went beyond pride and self-respect and moral ambiguity; had not known that just that brief taste of him would make her want to adore his body with her hands and her mouth.

“ _Shhh_ ,” he soothes. “It’s alright.” And his voice rasps slightly, raw and very different from the cool, often amused tone she is so used to. “It’s alright,” he repeats thickly. “I just… I just want to look at you… to touch you.”

And he eases off her so that the thin light from the moon bathes her skin in a fragile silver-white beam that seems to highlight all the shadows and curves of her flesh, making them seem mysterious and alluring and, to her own bewildered eyes, unfamiliar. Had her waist always had that narrow, vulnerable arch? Had her breasts always been that unexpectedly voluptuous? Even the curve of her hips are offered up to the moon’s mysterious light, the graceful line of her thigh and the delicacy of her ankle-bone all known to her, and yet in some way unknown.

And, against their silvery paleness, absorbing rather than reflecting the light the way her own flesh is, lies the male darkness of Peter’s body. She sucks in a shallow breath as she gazes at the indentation of his waist, the flat hardness of his buttocks, the strength of his thigh where it covers her own: a subtle statement of ownership and possession.

She shivers suddenly, raising a rash of goose-bumps from her throat to her hip. Her breath is locked in her chest as Peter strokes her skin with one finger, smoothing delicately over the sensitive flesh, from her collarbone down over her breast. When he reaches its flushed crest it seems to Stiles that he trembles – or is it her? – and then a soft, “ _Shit_ , Stiles,” escapes his mouth in a tone that is absolutely _wrecked_.

And for the first time in her life she experiences the sensation if a man’s mouth against her breast, as Peter suckles her nipple into his mouth, tongue swirling in a manner that has her brain frying and a harsh, almost-pained sob escaping her throat. Peter tenses, and then eases off her, covering her moist nipple with his hand, as if he cannot bear to relinquish all contact with her.

She is breathing sharply, eyes incapable of focusing. “I…I never knew it felt…” she cannot finish, conscious only of the intensity of the feeling that is tightening her gut in anticipation. He caresses the swollen tip of her breast and she shudders violently, unable to control the response.

“It’s alright,” he says. “It’s just that some women have exceptionally sensitive reactions to breast-play, so sensitive in fact that…” he breaks off, looking contemplative and hungry, and Stiles wonders if he knows about the pulsing ache in between her thighs, if he knows the _exact_ effect his touch is having on her. He rolls her nipple between his thumb and forefinger, squeezing sharply, and her entire body contracts, a sharp, wailing keen escaping her.

Peter’s eyes light up, and his smile is decidedly wicked as he dips his head back down to her chest. He eagerly suckles the other nipple into his mouth, working the swollen nub _enthusiastically_ with tongue and teeth, his hand working the other with alternating tugs and squeezes and rolls. She cannot think, cannot do anything but _feel_ and shiver and shake apart under his ministrations. Hot bolts of pleasure that feel more like lightning riding through her veins rock her body. She is writhing, panting, begging soundlessly with her body and vocally with a voice that sounds foreign to her own ears for _something_.

She does not even know what it is she is begging _for_. She has _never_ felt like this, even when she played with herself. The pleasure is all-consuming, _maddening_. Peter switches, mouthing at her other nipple, his hands leaving her breasts and sliding down her ribs, over her waist, and beneath to cup her ass. She has a brief moment where the fear takes over again, burning white-hot in her mind. He is everywhere, and the things he is doing to her, the way he is making her _feel_ ….

And then her first orgasm at another’s touch rolls through her. The world explodes into white noise, her vision blurring, body shuddering uncontrollably, and she cannot help but grab at him. After the pleasure settles into tiny, rippling aftershocks, she stares at the ceiling, body shivering, trying to catch her breath, all too aware of the heat of Peter’s body as it moves against her own, the rumbling vibration of his low, possessive growling, the way his lips are trailing down the center of her body, teasing little nips and licks that are doing absolutely nothing to help her calm down.

He sucks a bruise against one of her hips, biting just hard enough to feel the threat of teeth before soothing the spot with several languid licks. He moves down farther, hands running soothing paths down her sides, as if in attempt to keep her calm. But she is not calm, is not going to _be_ calm, because she knows what he is about to _do_ , knows _where_ he is going to put his mouth, and all she can do is stare at her ceiling and tremble.

And then his hands take her thighs and shift them further apart, and she could no more keep her eyes on the ceiling than grasp the moon with her bare hands. She just barely manages to catch the straight-up _hungry_ look he is giving her cunt, before he darts forward and … _ohdeargodholymotherinheaven...!_

His tongue does this _thing_ and this other _thing_ and he is finding every single spot she did not even realize she _had_ and he has yet to even _touch_ her clit and all she can do is curl up around his head and grip his shoulders and _wail_ as she orgasms again.

Peter does not _stop_. Does not stop licking her, does not stop suckling her. He is _devouring_ her like her cunt is a particularly ripe peach and the _noises_ he is _making_... _!_ She is sobbing, clinging to him, _begging_ him to stop, to let her breathe. It is _too much_. She is shaking apart, she is _dying_ , she _has_ to be, nothing can feel this good, this bad, this perfectly _wrong_. It is pleasure so intense it is almost painful. She is too sensitive, but he _does not stop_. After he wrings a third shuddering orgasm from her, his hands move, releasing her thighs and settling on her cunt. His own beta-blue hungry stare meets hers and he is grinning, wolfish, wicked. Then one hand starts expertly rolling her clit between dexterous fingers, playing the small nub like some delicate instrument, while the other traces circles around her opening before sliding one finger smoothly into her.

She _howls_.

There is no other word she could possibly use for the noise that escapes her throat. She is absently aware of him watching her as he plays her body, face an intricate display of wonder, hunger, and gravity. She is _much_ more aware of the fingers (now two) that are thrusting in and out of her; of the way her hips are following the rhythm excitedly, if not skillfully; of the way her fingernails are ripping jagged lines onto Peter’s skin over and over and over again only for the wounds to heal every time.

It is on the cusp of her fourth orgasm that Peter stops touching her altogether, pulling back to sit on his knees. She shrieks, wordless with surprise and a sudden, raging desperation that borders on fury. He is quick to silence her, reaching down and grabbing the back of her head and pulling her up into a heated kiss as he uses his other hand to help pull her onto his lap, settling her against his cock. If she were to shift just _so_ , he would slide right in. She is surprised with how much she wants that cock and the man attached to it, kissing him back hungrily. Her hips buck eagerly in an attempt to sheath him within her. (She is distantly thankful in the back of her mind for the fact that she is a highly curious teenager with access to internet shopping: Peter is a little larger than average for an adult male, but not that much larger than her vibrator, so there should not be much in the way of pain.) She whines low in her throat when he refuses to take the hint, simply grasps her hips more firmly to hold her steady and still.

“ _Please_ ,” she begs, writhing against him. There is a deep, throbbing ache that is settling in under her skin, unlike anything she has ever felt before, completely unlike any build-up to an orgasm she has ever experienced before. It is driving her onward towards something that she does not even understand and is partially afraid of, because she knows somehow that Peter is the only one that can soothe it. Peter is the only one that can satisfy this growing need, this primal hunger that he has awoken within her.

He leans back, looking at her, eyes glinting with some emotion she does not recognize. “ _Stiles_ ,” he purrs, and _that_ tone she recognizes – half smug satisfaction and half amused disbelief, like she has done _exactly_ what he expected her to do and yet managed to _surprise_ him in all the same action.

“Peter, _please_ ,” she begs again, hands tightening on his shoulders, fingers digging in like she is the one with claws. “ _Please_ , oh god, _please_ … _!_ ”

He tightens his grip on her hips, pupils dilating, a low possessive growl rumbling in his chest. “Just …just let me…” he grits out as he shuffles around, eventually ending up on his back with her straddling him, her hands braced against his chest, the head of his cock teasing her entrance, his hands firmly clamped on her hips neither helping nor hindering her as she sinks down.

 _Never_ in her wildest imagination had she ever thought she would be allowed to have this much control, that she would know the heady power of delicately absorbing his flesh within her own, inch by painfully slow inch. She never thought she would be allowed to tease him like this, going slower than she really needed because he had been an asshole about this whole thing and she is a spiteful creature, even now. She never thought she would be allowed to see written on his face _exactly_ what she is doing to him; how much he is holding himself back from simply flipping them over and _taking_ her; how much he truly wants this, wants _her_.

It is _intoxicating_ to be desired. To be _wanted_. She shivers once she has him fully sheathed within her, unable to move at first because this is _nothing_ like her awkward fumbling with a vibrator on the few occasions she has bothered to use it. Peter is warm, living flesh beneath her and _in_ her, nothing at all like the cold, hard plastic she is so used to. She cannot stop the low moan that comes from her mouth as she gradually inches back up, feeling the slick drag of his cock against her inner walls. She cannot help the way her fingers claw into his skin, digging ragged furrows into his chest when she takes him back inside her.

Peter lets her do this several times, lets her move slow and languid, lets her take him in over and over again like she is savoring it – and she _is_ , she totally is, because this is something unlike anything she has ever felt before. He does not force her to move faster or harder, his grip on her hips simply helping her to keep the rhythm her body sets. She pants, the pressure building again within her, so close to the edge it takes everything she has to not capsize. She wants … _something_. She is not sure what that something is, but she somehow knows that she will not be able to come again until she has it.

Her eyes slip close and her neck tilts back, and she cannot stop the way she is riding him faster and harder. She whines, low in her throat, begging wordlessly for Peter to do something, anything. She is so close, so goddamn close, but she cannot tip over. Her body is shaking from the force of her need, her every muscle feeling pulled taught.

Peter’s gaze flickers away from where he has been watching intensely the way she is riding him to her face, and some unidentifiable emotion flits across his face faster than she can comprehend it. And then he is grinning at her, all mischief and dark intent, and all she can do is shudder and moan as her pace stutters.

“It’s okay,” he croons, “I’ll take good care of you.” He sits up just enough to nuzzle against her breasts, mouthing eagerly against a nipple. At the first touch of his sinuous tongue, she cries out, hands clasping his head to her breast, stomach clenching as heat spirals through her. One of his hands slides to the small of her back and up her spine, settling at the back of her neck, clenching rhythmically in time to her heartbeat. The other slides between her legs and gently-but-enthusiastically starts to play with her clit.

The pleasure that hits her is too much, and yet, at the same time, it is not enough – it will _never_ be enough. She screams under the force of her fourth orgasm of the night; it is starting to hurt, but she cannot _stop_. There is some strange feeling prowling underneath her skin and in her head, some kind of burning itch, some strange primal instinct that has yet to be satisfied.

And then she is flat on her back, blinking blearily at her ceiling, feeling absurdly empty and bereft in the short amount of time it takes Peter to position himself back between her legs and thrust sharply in. Unlike her slow, methodical ride, Peter is all power and strength and speed as he thrusts in and out of her. His eyes have bled back into their beta-blue color, and his teeth – wolf-teeth, not human – are bared in a snarl. Stiles should be frightened of his loss of control, but she is not. She, instead, feels alarmingly satisfied, knowing that she drove him to that point.

She cannot keep her hands _off_ of him. The sight of a well-built man shirtless is always something wonderful to see – and thanks to the amount of male werewolves with apparent allergies to shirts running around, she _always_ gets a show – but she has never before had permission to scrutinize  shamelessly, never before had permission to touch. The _feel_ of the flex of his muscles beneath her hands is just as fascinating as the sight of them is, and she is _lost_ , so lost, teetering quickly towards her fifth orgasm of the night.

Peter cups the back of her head and drags her up to kiss her, tongue claiming her mouth as fierce and brutal as the way he is fucking into her. She clutches his shoulders and reciprocates just as hard, just as hungry. When they part, she tucks her head into the crook of his neck and pants.

He kisses savagely down her neck, teeth nipping just hard enough to send tiny bolts of pain down her spine. He reaches the juncture between her throat and collarbone, and bites down. Bites _hard_. The pain is like a sucker-punch to the stomach; it steals her breath and it hurts so goddamned much, but at the same time, her body is so overloaded on pleasure, she is so close to the edge of her fifth orgasm, and she is already hurting everywhere. The bite is just one more hurt: the final catalyst that pushes her exhausted body over the edge for the final time.

Everything goes kind of floaty for a long moment. She is dimly aware of Peter finishing inside of her, of his triumphant howl, of the deep ache her body throbs with once he pulls out. She is barely aware of the way he almost-tenderly wipes her down with a cool washcloth, riding her body of sweat, blood, and his seed. She is barely aware, but she is not unaware either, and when Peter goes to brush her sweat-dampened hair out of her face, she pulls together the necessary energy to grab his hand, position it just so, and clamp her teeth down sharply onto his wrist hard enough to draw blood.

 _Teach that asshole to bite **her**_ , is her last conscious thought before her exhaustion finally takes her.

 

* * *

 

 

> "Breathe whatever, feed this machine
> 
> -that's alive in me-
> 
> Oh, monstrocity, eat the energy
> 
> getting down and dirty with my enemies
> 
> So close, now I can show you
> 
> all the inner working things..."
> 
> ~Nostalgia ft. Insomnia - "Bad Machine"

 

* * *

Peter smiles smugly as he watches his sleeping mate, enjoying the sight of his rapidly healing claiming bite on the graceful line of her throat, delighting in the answering throb of her own bite on the inside of the wrist of his dominant hand.

He has her and she is his _. His_ mate. Not Derek’s _._

He brushes a hand gently against soft skin, relishing in the fact that this pretty little slip of a girl is _finally_ his. His to touch. His to fuck. His to breed. All _his_.

He had not lied to her earlier; he had honestly never intended this to happen the way it did, though he will never fully regret it. He had a plan, a good one, one that would have had Stiles coming to him on her own, eager and willing. He had noticed – how could he not? – the way the others dismissed Stiles whenever she was not deliberately pissing one of them off for attention. He had noticed how casually the girl faded from everyone’s attention. He had noticed how they all seemed to forget or never understand that it was her holding everything and everyone together. He had noticed how no one else seemed to be able to see the way Stiles _shown_ , a budding glow of power and potential just waiting to bloom. She was like a locked puzzle-box, with all those tantalizing secrets and babbling misdirection and awkward flailing hiding a true treasure.

So, yes, he had a plan. He had appealed to her instinct to nurture and protect, exaggerated his reactions to Derek and the pack’s continued rejections, and overemphasized his eagerness to _help_. He bantered with her and talked to her, paid her attention when the others deliberately ignored her, inquired after her health and general mental well-being when the others were oblivious to the fact that things were _not_ all right. She proved willing to accept him in her life after a time, but also remained wary and watching. There had been genuine understanding about what he had done before, but not forgiveness, and he had known that he would have to work _hard_ to make her his. And he _had_ been willing to do so.

The whole Darach situation had jump-started matters, though, in ways he could not risk. He _could not_ risk Stiles going to another man, going to _Derek_ , who despite what Peter told Stiles, _is_ beginning to realize _exactly_ what Stiles is worth, what Stiles would bring to the table as the other half of an Alpha Pair. It is too late for Derek now, though. Stiles belongs to Peter now, is bound to him in ways that even death can no longer separate. And if it means that his plan to get Stiles to come to him on her own has failed, horribly, because of his own possessive nature, _well_. He is not even _remotely_ sorry, now that he has her, though of course he will play at remorse to help ease her acceptance of their settling bond.

She had proved eager in the end, but Peter knows no one will be happy about this in the cold light of day, least of all Stiles. His smiles grows a tad cruel. Stiles will come around in her own time, he knows – she is wonderfully pragmatic like that. He has a lifetime now to show Stiles how well they complement each other, and that things will be _good_ between them, regardless of how this started. As for the others …well, he has _plans_ for them. Not in the least because of the way they saw his mate. Derek and his pack looked at Stiles and saw a weak little human, an annoyance at best and a liability at worst. To them, she is Scott’s tagalong, the human that will never be good enough but cannot take a hint and leave.  

They are fools, but he has never been accused of the same. Peter finds it hilarious and very sad that out of all the teenagers Derek surrounds himself with, it is the only _human_ amongst them that truly understands the concept of _pack_. He finds it even more hilarious that Stiles has a better understanding of what it means to _be_ a werewolf than all of them. It is not just because of her research, either. It is something intrinsic within her very being. She _gets_ it, understands that they are not quite human anymore, that they are ruled by a part of them that does not think in human terms or emotions, by human wants or needs. She understands that the wolf is so entwined that pretending to be human only goes so far, because wolf and human are _not_ two separate entities contained within one body but a united _whole_. She _understands_. Peter finds it _hysterically_ entertaining that Stiles understands that concept better than Derek, who was _born_ a werewolf.

He threads a hand through Stiles’ curls, watching his mate as she snuggles deeper into him, a soft sigh escaping her. Peter knows better than anyone what Stiles is worth. He had known better even when he had only known the girl for barely a handful of hours. Even half-mad, Peter had known what she could be. Underneath her quick and easily startled nature is something unbreakable, something strong and immovable, a strength of will that will move mountains and a backbone of steel that will weather any storm. She is _perfect_ , sublime in everything she does, everything she _is_.

He is honestly glad she had rejected his bite that day. Power-mad and revenge-driven as he had been, he would have only done her irreparable harm. And he does not want to harm her. Others, yes, but not her. Even if he still thinks she would make a brilliant wolf, he would rather she remain human than go to _another_ alpha for the bite. If he cannot turn her, no one else will _ever_ be allowed. Not that he will have to worry about that for much longer. There are quite a few spare alphas running around Beacon Hills at the moment, after all, causing all kinds of mischief for his nephew. Surely no one would blame him for killing one or two of them? Especially if one of them dares threaten his mate. And with a mate-bond to settle him, he will not even have to worry about losing his mind to the power-rush. He will be a good alpha for his precious little mate and the pups she will bear him.

He gently untangles his sleeping mate from his body, slipping out of the bed as quietly as he can. The Sherriff will be home soon, and Peter needs to make absolutely _certain_ his new father-in-law understands _exactly_ the position the man now finds himself in. After all, it would not do to try and separate Peter from his mate. Not now, not ever. He cannot kill the man, cannot even _threaten_ to kill him, because if Peter knows anything, he knows that Stiles will set him on fire – _again_ – if he even thinks of hurting her only remaining kin. But there are other ways Peter can ensure Stiles’ father’s cooperation, and if the Sherriff approves, Stiles is much less likely to fight their still-settling bond. And if the man is not willing to cooperate, _well_. While _he_ may not be allowed to remove his mate’s father from the picture, there are plenty of other hot-tempered supernatural beings floating around Beacon Hills. It is entirely possible the Sherriff might have an _accident_ that he will in no way have anything to do with.

Peter will do anything for his mate now that he has her, will do anything and _everything_ to keep her, and he has already proven that even death will not stop him. Peter does not care that she is too young by human laws, does not care that he is too old for her in general, and _really_ does not care that she is not even finished high school yet. He had not used protection when he had fucked her, and he never will. Even if she does not end up pregnant from this night, there will be others, and it _will_ happen. Soon, if Peter has any say about it.

He has his mate, and soon he will have a pup of his very own. Soon he will be an alpha again, and the Hale territory will _finally_ have the stable pack it has been screaming out for since the night his family went up in flames. Nothing will stop him, not now.

**Author's Note:**

> Just to be clear about where I stand on this, because I've already had several people on another site bitch at me about this: regardless of whatever deliciously atrocious kinks I may have or may enjoy reading/writing about, in real life things are different. I am a firm believer that no means no. It doesn't matter if the victim enjoys his/herself at some point physically, rape is still rape. If at any point someone says "no" and their partner doesn't listen, it's rape. If at any point someone realizes that they have the choice of submitting willingly or being dragged back to the bed and _made_ to submit, it's rape.


End file.
